


The Word for World is Winter.

by Ook



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Charles is cold, Charles need help., Erik is not a Happy Bunny, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, It came from my brain!, M/M, Not one of my WIPS, One Shot, Post-Apocalypse, Rescue, Winter version, sorry.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 12:12:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4666086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ook/pseuds/Ook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles is  trying to head south, out of winter's grasp and Shaw's both, when he is noticed by a strange convoy...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Word for World is Winter.

**Author's Note:**

> My WIPs are still completely stuck. Here, have a hurt comfort one shot.
> 
> My real life has completely exploded on me this month. I've had to deal with illness (mine) an eye infection (mine) redundancy at work (mine) and emergency dental surgery (also mine.) That plus the writer's block is why I have been quiet of late. Well, that, plus having my brain EATEN by an original fic idea.
> 
> Howsoever; it looks like I might have some more free time soon (THANKS WORK!) so keep your fingers crossed my muse returns.
> 
> Also, please bless and praise Kernezelda for the beta-ing and the encouragement and the everything. Thanks, K!

Charles hears the approaching convoy long before he spots it. Although the snow is not, for once, reducing visibility to a few inches in front of his face, the convoy comes up from behind him. Heading in the same direction as he is, although the four big wagons and the larger truck are far more likely to get to whatever their destination is than Charles is himself.

The engine rumble—engines of all things, elderly reminders of civilisation’s former glories—is both shocking and familiar to Charles. He’s surprised that the trucks are being used in winter, but then, most animals couldn’t pull so large a load, not in this weather. Not even oxen. Those metal-banded trucks are _big_ , and heavy.

Charles edges off the wide, snow-coated road, giving the convoy a wide berth. He reminds himself as he starts scuttling that he’s already achieved far more than he’d ever dared hope. He’s escaped, he’s been two weeks free of that hellhole, and even if the only other mutant to get away with him died four nights after the breakout, he’d died free.

Charles hadn’t the strength, time or resources to hope to bury as he deserved the silent man, who had never made a single sound in his hearing. The most Charles had been able to do was drag the body to the then ice-clotted river, and push it under, hoping Shaw’s Hunters might not find it. That would make the mute mutant the person to break Shaw’s “no escapes” boast into tiny, tiny pieces. A final victory of sorts.

That had been back when Charles had been sure that every noise, every sign of humans living in this bleak, bitter, winter landscape was evidence of Shaw’s people and the man’s tight grip on everything within his territory, mutant or otherwise. The second wagon grinds past him; he sees a pale face at the window and some movement within the cab.

Was the passenger waving at him? Charles shuffles the metal bands on his wrists a little, tucking the cloth of his sleeve between skin and metal, keeping them out of sight. A convoy this powerful and fuel-wealthy has to be something to do with Shaw, or have dealings with him. He hunches his shoulders against the gusting wind.

Since those first days, Charles’s prolonged escape has calmed him a little. He even thinks he might be approaching the borderlands where Shaw’s influence starts to run out. He doesn’t yet dare to hope he might make it out of Shaw’s reach altogether.

The convoy passes him, and then it halts, at no signal Charles can discern. Charles backs away further, and wishes he’d decided to flatten himself in the ditch till they’d passed out of sight. He briefly considers waiting until they move on again. But standing still is just too cold. Wearily, he starts plodding forward again.

 _Don’t notice me,_ Charles prays, futilely. _Don’t pay attention to me._ He shifts the scant bundle in his arms to pat the scarf covering the suppression collar he’s unable to remove by himself. Keeps walking forwards, even as a door bangs.

He’s a single traveller in the wintry wastes, far too unimportant to attract anyone’s interest. The snow squeaks and crunches under his feet.

_One step at a time,_ he tells himself. _One step at a time will take you from here to the other side of the world._

“Hey!”

Charles jumps, and stumbles forwards a few paces.

“Hey man, no need to run!” a young man says, half-laughing. Charles turns warily to look at him. He can’t tell many physical details through the stranger’s heavy cold-defeating clothing, but he sounds strong and well-fed and cheerful. The skin around his eyes is dark, but cloth covers almost as much of his face as Charles’ scarf hides his own features.

“H-hello,” Charles rasps through the frost-rimed face cloth. “What can I—”

“Just wondering what you’re doing out here,” the younger, dark-eyed man says. “Pretty far from home, I bet.”

Charles doesn’t say anything. He keeps walking, and the other accompanies him, smiling perhaps, easy, seemingly unaware of anything odd or unusual in Charles’s reactions. They pass the first wagon.

“You alright?” The convoy man says. “Do you—”

“I don’t have money,” Charles says, harshly. “I don’t—I don’t have anything you might want—” He shifts the bundle in his arms again. “I’m not—not worth your trouble.”

“Everyone’s worth something,” the other man says, gently. Charles shrugs. “Do you-?“ He stiffens, moves closer. Charles takes another step away and the stranger stops, immediately. “Sorry man,” he says, holding up hands in some gesture of peacefulness. “But I noticed—is that a suppression—”

Charles drops his bundle and bolts across the open field. Toward the ice-covered lake. He’d considered travelling on the lake itself, away from the road, but the ice isn’t yet thick enough for safety, and he had no compass to keep himself from getting turned around.

Faintly, behind him, he hears shouts. Charles staggers onto the shoreline, and grabs a fist-sized rock. He turns his head and the other man is not only following him, he’s been joined by another. He edges onto the ice, which creaks, warningly. The strangers look to be heavily clad, well fed—the too-thin ice is more of a risk to them. He hopes.

“I’m not going back,” Charles says, desperate, as they close in on him. “I’m—I’m not going to be Shaw’s again. I’d rather die.” The ice makes an ominous cracking sound. Both men freeze. Charles backs away a little further.

“No one’s sending you anywhere you don’t want to go,” the taller, newer stranger says, firm. “Least of all to Shaw.” He spits the name out as if it tastes disgusting. He sounds believable; but Charles no longer trusts his ears. Without his powers, he can’t trust anyone else, either.

Wearing the collar, Charles can only assume everyone he meets is a liar. It’s the only way to stay safe.

“I—” Charles says. “I don’t—”

“We just want to help you!” the taller stranger snaps. “You’re going to freeze or starve and—”

The rock drops from Charles’s unreliable fingers and punches a hole through the ice. There are more cracking noises, and both strangers scramble back to shore as splits start appearing in the snow-covered ice of the lake.

 _Good._ Charles thinks. _Good. You just stay away from me and—_

Abruptly the ice under his feet creaks, and slides out from underneath him. Charles has time to suck in one desperate breath and then he’s gone, slipping down, down into the frigid depths of the lake. His clawed fingers scratch hopelessly at the tilted slab above him.

The cold that envelopes him is like nothing Charles has ever experienced before. It soaks though his ragged clothes and smashes itself through Charles’s skinny body like a great blunt weapon. In less than three seconds, he’s too cold to think, let alone try to swim or climb out.

Charles barely has time to realise that this is it, his life is over, and his dying is going to be mercifully swift, when something yanks on him, hard. The metal cuffs on his wrists and ankles bite deep. He wonders, blurrily, about freshwater sharks, or the current, and then, somehow, he’s in the air, above the lake, before being dumped unceremoniously at the two strangers’ feet.

They jerk him upright, and then set off back towards the convoy at a run, dragging Charles with them. His ice-bound limbs scream in agony. A whimpering gasp of protest escapes his half-frozen throat.

“Don’t even think about struggling,” one of them growls in Charles’ ear. “If you don’t get dry and warm fast, you’re going to freeze to death.”

That’s something Charles is very aware of—the wind cuts though his soaked rags as if he’s naked to it, flaying his skin with ice particles. He’s reasonably sure there’s ice in his eyebrows and eyelashes, crusting in his straggly beard. But he’s too cold to talk, or think, or even shiver very well.

Desperately, Charles wishes he could be sure he could afford the price—whatever it is—that this “rescue” will cost him.

 _At least slaves get fed sometimes._ he muses, vaguely, as eager hands reach down and pull him into back of the largest truck.

“Strip him!” somebody orders, and Charles doesn’t try to fight it. Hands pull at his wet coat and scarves and shoes, tumbling him this way and that. He bites back a pained protest. He doesn’t want to make anyone angry until he knows the lay of the land a little better.

His shirt is peeled away, and then his trousers, leaving him bare to all.

“Gently, gently—” the voice breaks off. For a second the frantic activity around him stops dead.

“My God,” someone breathes, horrified.

Charles tries to curl into the foetal position, starving-cold and frightened and so alone. He knows what they’re staring at. The collar. The half-broken cuffs. The scars of the experimental surgeries, the burns, the bruises, the whole map of Charles’s bitter past. Soft hands hold him still.

“Don’t just stand there!” a female voice snaps. Charles thinks it might be one of the strangers who came out of the trucks to him. “Stare later, save a life now!”

A warm, wet cloth swipes over Charles’ face, freeing his eyes and nose from ice and dirt. He blinks, and stares at the person bending over him, where he’s half-sat, half-crouched on the wooden floor. He sees a dark-haired, dark-eyed woman scowling furiously. She turns from his slack-jawed gaze to grab a linen shirt.

Charles takes a moment to observe his surroundings. Several children and four adults, and any amount of wooden boxes and metal shelves are packed into the back of the large truck. There’s a camp stove, burning blue flames as it heats something mysterious in a pot. It’s warm and smoky but surprisingly well-lit, for a space without any windows apart from ventilation strips.

“Can you raise your arms?” the woman asks, gently. It takes a long moment for Charles to realise she’s speaking to him, but when he tries, she smiles a crooked half-smile, and slips the shirt on over his head.

As she works the sleeves past the cuffs, she mutters something Charles can’t quite hear and then looks up, taking care to catch his eye.

“Do you want to keep these?” she taps Charles’s cuffs. He shakes his head, and keeps his gaze on the floor. “Erik?” the woman says, sharp and impatient. “Can you—” The cuffs _move_ of their own accord.

Charles gapes. They flow from his wrists, and from his ankles, as obedient as any charmed snake. Charles has to bite his tongue to keep from screaming or laughing. Or both. 

“Thanks,” he manages, gratitude warming his voice.

Someone else looms over him.

“Better?”

Charles looks up. If the speaker is the Erik the woman talked to earlier, he’s also the taller of the two strangers who accosting him by the roadside. He’s slender without his bulky parka, and his hair is almost red. Charles nods fervently, and coughs.

“That was—that was—” he swallows, and sucks in a breath. “You’re a mutant,” he says, at last, shivering. He stares at the floor again. Other mutants. Bitter lessons from before warn him against assuming that means he can hope for much.

“That I am,” Erik says, with a half-laugh. “As are you, I should think.” He reaches out towards Charles’s throat. Charles flinches back, but Erik only taps the collar he’s wearing. “What can you do, without this?”

Charles swallows again, and stares, as he’s half-lifted, and someone pulls soft thick trousers up to his waist. Mutants. There are mutants in the convoy, and they don’t appear to be slaves or lower in status, but most people who aren’t telepaths don’t like them very much. Mind powers are always feared. Even by other mutants.

But there’s not much point in lying, not with his brain slushy cold porridge. It’s hard enough to communicate the truth.

“T-t-t—” he stutters at last, shivering so hard he can barely get words past his chattering teeth. “Telepath.”

“Oh,” Erik says, “A mind reader.” He grins widely, seemingly pleased. Other people in the truck make interested noises. Inwardly Charles flinches, fully prepared to be dumped by the road again, or spat at or—

“Can you drink this? It’s warm.” The woman’s back again, shouldering her way past a couple of staring children. Charles reaches out, but his hands are shaking too badly. He’ll drop the cup, and waste the drink, if he tries. He stares at the warm drink. A soft sound of woe escapes him.

“Come on—” Hands on him again, half-helping, half-guiding. Charles staggers a few steps and finds himself seated on a long, padded bench let down from the wall of the truck. “Az, you sit next to him, you’re practically a furnace—”

Someone tall and _red_ drops down by Charles’ side. There are fingers—searingly hot, scarlet fingers—under Charles’ chin, lifting his face. He looks up to see a scarred, smiling countenance.

“Hello.” He grins at Charles, looking very like old clichés of pantomime devils. “I am Az. What’s your name?”

“Ch-ch-Charles,” Charles gasps, shoulders hunched against the sudden warmth by his side. Az wraps an arm around him as he shivers. The dark-eyed woman is right; the man is a furnace. “I—I don’t—” he breaks off to cough. “Why?” he manages, at last. Why are they doing this?

“Because,” the dark haired woman snaps.

Charles frowns. What is in it for them, to help a stranger? What will they want in return? They are clearly powerful, and well supplied—four vehicles, four engines and the fuel to fill them all. Why should a fragment like himself even catch their attention?

“I-I don’t—I can’t—” he tries.

 _“Because,”_ she says again, even more fiercely. Charles tries to recoil, but finds himself pulled more tightly against Az’s side.

“Here,” Az says. “If I hold this, can you swallow?” Someone snorts a laugh. “You are not twelve, Summers,” Az says, and there’s a distant sound of a slap. Someone yelps, and Charles can’t look away from Az’s dark, laughing eyes. Lightly, the cup is pressed to Charles’ mouth. He gulps.

Warm soup slides down his throat and lands in his all-too-empty stomach. He gulps again, but the cup isn’t there.

“Slowly.” Someone slides up to Charles from the other side, and he jerks, trapped. “Drink it slowly, or you’ll likely be sick.” Charles turns and stares, wide-eyed and still bewildered, at Erik.

“S-sorry,” Charles manages, and he’s still shivering. If anything it seems to have got worse. He’s dressed, dry, tucked between two men radiating heat, but he just can’t seem to get warm.

“Don’t be sorry.” Az holds the cup to Charles’s mouth again. “Just be slow.” Charles drinks again, more deliberately. The soup tastes delicious. It’s also the first truly warm food he’s eaten if what feels like years. The tight knot of ice in his guts seems to thaw a little.

Erik turns his head and addresses the small group of fascinated people sharply. “Who got his things?”

“Darwin!” a couple of voices chorus. Charles squints over at them. One of the children appears to be blue. Interesting.

“Get Jean to signal; I want us on the move. As fast as is safe.” A dark-skinned man herds the children to another bench, and they sit. The truck lurches and rumbles. They’re on the move. The convoy is on the move, and they appear to be taking Charles with them. He blinks. Nothing that is happening makes sense to him.

“Here.” The woman reappears with a blanket that she spreads over all three of them. “Lift your feet up,” she tells Charles. He stares, puzzled, until Az sighs and bends to lift Charles’ feet into his lap.

“No frost bite,” Az reports, laconically. “Lucky.” His hands shift up along Charles’ ankles. He sucks in a sudden angry breath. Charles tenses, not sure what he’s done wrong.

“What is it?” asks the man Charles is leaning against. Erik’s voice rumbles through Charles’s still-cold body almost pleasantly. His hand is rubbing away at Charles’s back, almost as if he’s forgotten he’s doing it. Charles finds it almost soothing.

“Shackle galls,” Az says tersely. “Angel.” He raises his voice and the dark-haired woman turns back to him, moving easily with the sway of the vehicle. Her eyes narrow when she sees the red-raw weals around Charles’s ankles. Wordlessly, Erik reaches for Charles’ wrists to expose the wounds there.

“This might sting,” Angel says gently. She uncaps a large bottle and pours a clear liquid onto clean cloth. “But I gotta get them clean.”

Charles nods, and sets his teeth. He can handle pain. He’s used to much worse than this.

“I’m sorry,” Erik says, and it takes a moment for Charles to realise the man is apologising to him. “My gift is metal control; and when I saw the ice break, I knew we didn’t have much time to get you out of there. Using the collar to lift you might have snapped your neck, so…” He trails off.

“They were pretty bad to start with. Better than drowning.” Charles ducks his head and mumbles. Angel continues to clean away at his wrists. Az rubs and chafes Charles’s blue-white feet. Charles makes a bewildered noise.

“Circulation,” Az says, cryptically. “You are looking less frozen, but we must not slack off.”

Erik grunts in agreement. Angel hands him the bottle and proceeds to smear a thick, slightly greasy paste onto Charles’s wounds. He hands are gentle and deft, as if the wounds—as if Charles himself matters to her, as if she knows him.

“I don’t—I don’t understand why,” Charles says, finally.

“Why what?” Erik looks at him sharply.

“Why you stopped. Took me with you. Why—”

“You’re one of us,” Erik growls, gunmetal grey eyes gleaming. “A mutant,” he clarifies, as Charles continues to look blank. “Suppression collars have a very distinct feel to metal sense.”

“So?” Charles says. “You didn’t know what I—I might not have had a useful mutation. I—”

Angel snorts.

“I knew you were one of us,” Erik says. “That’s—”

“And besides,” Az puts in from where he’s still warming Charles’s feet. “We’d have stopped for a lone wanderer here anyway. There’s a bad storm coming.”

“Thank you.” Charles blinks weary eyes. His shivers are starting to taper off; and while he doesn’t really feel warm yet, he doesn’t feel in danger of frostbite or frozen blood any more.

“Hey.” Charles looks up; and sees a dark-skinned man, with cheerful, kind eyes. Maybe the first man who spoke to him. He’s holding out another cup, this one steaming and fragrant.

“Um.” Charles coughs, trying not to stare at the cup. It might not be for him, anyway—he’s fairly sure both Az and Erik are high-ranking men in the convoy.

“Chok!” Az says, and hums, pleased. “Good idea, Darwin.” He reaches out. Darwin steps away.

“Nah, this is for the guy who got wet, not the one who sat in the truck.” He’s laughing as he reaches out and takes Charles’s hand. “Can you hold this?” He wraps Charles’s fingers around the thick pottery cup softly. The warmth stings a little, but it’s good. Charles inhales the steam in a daze. His eyes flick nervously to Az.

“Take a sip,” Darwin urges him. Beside Charles, Erik rumbles in agreement.

Charles sips. Swallows down sweet hot comfort.

“Th-thankyou.” Charles stares at Darwin, who stands as easily in the swaying truck as if it wasn’t moving at all.

“Thank me by finishing it.” Darwin smiles. “You’re too skinny.”

Charles drinks it all down, torn between savouring the delicious luxury, and drinking it while it’s warm. Az tugs thick socks onto Charles’ bare feet, easing them over the bandages carefully.

“Get some sleep,” Erik says, taking the empty cup from his fingers. “We’ve three days travel to home.”

Blinking, Charles lets his head rest on Az’s shoulder, and obeys. Something like peace steals through him. He yawns. A dull sense of wonder is being eclipsed by something even rarer, more precious for being so fragile. Charles thinks he might even dare to name it.

Hope.


End file.
